Leigh Stein wasn't too worried about upsetting people with her memoir — after all, the other main character was dead.

But Stein, whose upcoming memoir "Land of Enchantment" focuses on a volatile relationship with her late ex-boyfriend, still navigated the first-draft emotions of family and friends.

Her mother read the book in one sitting over the holidays. Stein worried, she said, "she would ask me to change something, but she didn't." Her boyfriend, on the other hand, opted not to read it, now or ever. And she's dreading showing the book to her ex-boyfriend's mother.

"I haven't worked up the courage," said Stein, a Chicago native who lives in Connecticut. "I know it's going to be difficult for her to read."

Worrying what others think of personal writing — from a legal or ethical standpoint — is a common concern for those mulling memoirs.

As a co-founder of the writing conference BinderCon, Stein heard these questions so often she incorporated them into a panel for the group's Los Angeles conference. And keynote speakers have included Jillian Lauren, whose parents temporarily stopped speaking to her after the publication of "Some Girls: My Life in a Harem."

Many of the writers who attend conferences clamor for help on incorporating and handling others. On Friday, Stein, alongside memoirists Cheryl Strayed, Eileen Cronin and Laurie Lindeen, will speak at an Association of Writers & Writing Programs panel about the self as protagonist.

And this weekend in Chicago, a StoryStudio event, "The Legal Side of Writing," promises to answer questions such as "Can a friend or a family member sue me if I write about them?"

And writers might be more cautious now about trusting their memory; a slew of memoirs have come under fire for not being truthful (see: James Frey's "A Million Little Pieces") or drawn lawsuits. In 2014, former Minnesota governor Jesse Ventura sued HarperCollins after disputing a bar fight mentioned in the memoir "American Sniper." Previously, he won a lawsuit arguing the scene was defamatory.

Libel laws exist to prohibit a writer from defaming someone. But ethically, the obligations to someone whose private moments are revealed as writers share their own might reside in a much grayer area.

"The risk becomes exaggerated as a way to not write," said David Stuart MacLean, author of "The Answer to the Riddle is Me: A Memoir of Amnesia." Echoing advice he gives his University of Chicago students, he said, "Just write it, and then worry."

He added, "If anybody's going to get punched in the face, it's you. That's a good way to square it with yourself. Am I willing to get punched in the face for this? Is this enough of the truth?"

Some, like MacLean, use pseudonyms early in the process. Others use real names while writing, replacing them later.

And options abound for avoiding a direct implication. Some writers change names or identifying characteristics (a brunette becomes a redhead; a roommate morphs into a fraternity brother). Others label a book fiction.

For MacLean, the boundaries of using real names have evolved along with his writing.

One steadfast rule? Anonymity with intimacy.

"Any time it dealt with someone else's intimate body, I changed their name," he said.

This rule emerged after an ex-girlfriend objected to a sex scene. Prior to publication, she'd signed off on him telling their story, he said. But seeing it in print, she told him, "You didn't tell me you were going to write about us having sex."

Riveting and raw, Walls' memoir, which recounts a nomadic childhood and alcoholic father, includes stories that do not paint positive parental portraits. Partly due to deciding what to keep and what to cut, she spent six weeks writing — and five years revising.

"If you sit down and worry about, what is my family going to think about this, what is my mother going to think of this, that is too much of an impediment," Walls said.

Walls struggled with whether to leave or cut various scenes — a cringe-worthy scene with her father at a bar, her mother hoarding food while the kids went hungry.

"Nobody would have known that that scene was missing," she said. Ultimately, she left both in.

After laboring through the writing process, writers trim or carve or cut.

"If something is so excruciating and horrible that you can't imagine it being written, that means you must write it," Walls said. "You can always decide to take it out at the end."

Understand the legal limitations. Regardless of what writers decide, the chance lurks that someone will recognize themselves as they flip pages.

Incorporating others into your story — or simply avoiding lawsuits — is a careful art form.

"It's important to sleep at night," said Jan Constantine, general counsel at The Authors Guild. She advises writers to invest in media liability insurance in case they face a lawsuit.

Constantine said the final chapter of writing a nonfiction book or memoir is often deciding what to scoop out. It's not unusual for a team of lawyers to comb a manuscript.

"Then there will be discussion, and choices will have to be made in terms of taking out certain things," she said. "A writer has to be willing to make accommodations."

She advises Authors Guild writers to invest in media liability insurance, which protects writers against fees they might have to pay. It can range from about $800 to $2,000, she said.

Lou Scimecca, senior vice president for Axis Insurance, which works with the Authors Guild and various media companies, said this typically covers an author for damages — a judgment or a settlement — and expenses like attorney fees.

Writers are often responsible for their own legal fees, Constantine said, and in some cases, even those of their publishers.

"People can bring a frivolous lawsuit," she said. "It'll get tossed out — but you still have to pay your lawyer."

Problems arise, she explained, when someone can say, "Well, everybody knows it was me, you used my last name and you described someone who was balding at the age of 20."

Here, she said, is where flexibility becomes attractive. "Is it worth it? No, it's not. Would it affect the story to not have it in there? No, it wouldn't. That's where you really have to be reasonable."

Consider the conversation. Whatever a writer decides, an uncomfortable conversation is often on the horizon. Some tell family or friends right away; other wait until the book hits stores. Authors might approach family with releases in hand, or hope for a warm conversation in the living room.

Samuel Park, whose 2011 novel "This Burns My Heart" was inspired by his mother's life in South Korea, said he didn't tell her when he was writing.

"I knew that it would freeze me up," he said.

But when he sold the book, it was time.

Dreading a heavy conversation, he asked her to take an evening walk. To his relief, he said, "she actually found it just amusing."

Later, though, she asked him not to tell people how much of the book was true. Eventually she embraced it, recounting how she was the inspiration. Now, she even gives out copies of the Korean edition as gifts.

Some family members did not take a project seriously; others were flattered to be a muse. Often, people were piqued by unexpected things.

"She was really upset with my description of her driving," Walls recalled of her mother's critique.

Key to the decision of leaving stories in, Walls said, is remembering who she's writing for — the reader, not relatives.

"Some of those scenes that I thought were the roughest and most damaging, people came up to me and said, 'Thank you so much for telling that story. I'm in a similar situation, and that story really helped me,'" she said. "And that's why we tell our stories."